


you're the only way out

by mellyflori



Series: here we are millionaires [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 19:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7451782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re well into the first round before they realize this is probably not going to be the ordinary paintball game everyone was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the only way out

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to cherryfeather, JWAB, and ceeturnalia, for kicking off the idea, making sure it flowed, and providing the perfect line, respectively.

They’re well into the first round before they realize this is probably not going to be the ordinary paintball game everyone was expecting. 

All the members of both Team Two and Team Three show up to play in the camo fatigues they were discharged in, Aramis’ pockets still sagging in the shape of his first-aid kit and multi-tool and Perez’s jacket with his name patches still on it. Athos’ boots have a high shine and everyone there knows they’ll be polished again before they go back in the closet. 

The closest their teams come to uniforms is everyone wearing black t-shirts but that’s entirely coincidental. They check their weapons with the same care they’ve been checking live-fire weapons for half their lives, and do a radio function check with the ease of people who do one every day as part of their jobs. If they were looking, they’d seethe furrow between the course manager’s eyebrows. He’s learned you have to watch ex-military guys a little more closely. Sometimes they’re not playing to win a game. Sometimes they’re not playing at all. 

The first five minutes are fine. Huet, the big Nigerian on Team Two, strafes the front of the structure Athos and Porthos are hiding behind and they decide a flanking approach would be good. Or rather, Porthos decides it and tries to communicate it using the hand gestures he’d used in the Army. Aramis shakes his head and uses a completely different set of hand signals. While they’re arguing in increasingly frantic, incomprehensible gestures, Team Two’s hand-to-hand expert, Durand, has started sneaking across the open space between structures. 

Frustrated, Athos rolls his eyes. He peers around the structure to see Durand coming and fires directly at his kneecap. Durand drops like his strings have been cut. While Huet is helping him back to their side, Perez providing covering fire, Athos turns to his teammates. “First, please stop using old signals from armies you’re not part of anymore and start using the communication skills we’ve spent the last three years honing.” He sounds very much like he’s asking a four-year-old, for the third time that day, to not stick a Lego up his nose. "Second,” he clicks the Talk button on his radio and speaks directly into the mic, “you’ve got a _fucking_ radio." 

Aramis winces and covers his ear, but the point is made. 

Huet and Durand have clearly returned to their base because there are shots coming from three different weapons. Aramis leans close to his mic. “Flanking is too obvious, they’re expecting it.” 

He can see Porthos’ mouth move a few feet away, but his voice is right in Aramis’ ear, as grounding as it always is. “I’m going up. I’m gonna shoot for a few seconds and then stop. When I stop they’ll pop out and then,” he points at Aramis. 

“They’ll be sending someone around from the side, I’ll head them off,” Athos says. 

Aramis nods and after that it’s all in the eyes. Porthos flicks his gaze to the top of the barrier and back to Aramis. He pops up, yelling like a beast and firing again and again into the window at the center of their barrier. He looks back down at Aramis, moving only his eyes and Aramis gives the tiniest of nods. When Porthos stops and ducks back down, Aramis is ready. He can see Durand’s face appear in the window and Aramis fires. A bright spot of turquoise blooms in the center of Durand’s throat and another in the middle of his mask. 

The blaring of the cease-fire siren brings them all up short. The course manager glares down at them from his tower. They can hear him through the loudspeaker. “No face shots, no neck shots!” Athos gives a thumbs-up and Huet sketches a salute. 

When the game-on siren sounds, Perez opens fire on the spot where he thinks they’re clustered, leaving Aramis to creep along to the far edges of their barrier. “Going east.” 

“Copy,” Athos says. “Covering you east." 

Maybe it’s the fact that their camo and black t-shirts stand out against the stark, unpainted plywood, maybe it’s just blind luck, but someone on Team Two, Huet probably, sees Aramis edging around the side of the barrier. 

The ball strikes him in the hollow of his right shoulder, punching a breath out of him. He’s not braced for it so his entire torso jerks back, twisting as he tries to say on his feet. In his ear, Porthos is screaming his name, frantic. 

“Aramis! Aramis!” 

Still stumbling, Aramis drops to the side so he’s out of range. Porthos must see him go down, because he’s still screaming Aramis’ name. Aramis puts one hand up, waving and speaks into his mic with the other hand. “I’m okay, just surprised me, that’s all. I’m okay." 

Porthos growls. It’s low and angry and it sends a shudder down Aramis’ spine. “Cover,” he says into his radio. “Straight out." 

“Copy. Covering you.” That’s Athos, icy calm. 

Team Two might have expected Porthos’ offensive to be accompanied by shouting and berserker rage, it’s no secret their team’s bond is particularly close, but he’s beyond that now. He’s deadly and efficient and he moves in a way that allows him to come up and around the side without taking a shot. The course rules say no firing at a range of less than two meters and Aramis is sure that the distance from which Porthos shoots Huet in the chest is precisely that. 

Porthos shoots Perez in the gut as he’s turning but Durand has the time to take aim. While Aramis is watching, a tiny red light starts moving over the black of Porthos’ t-shirt and a wave of cold dread slaps Aramis in the face. Seeing Porthos, seeing the love of his life and the other half of his soul with a target laser over his heart, Aramis nearly vomits. 

Before Durand can fire, Aramis yells into the radio. 

“Porthos! You’re done! Check your chest!" 

Jutting his jaw out, digging his teeth into his lower lip and staring Durand down, Porthos puts his gun over his head and calls, “I’m out,” loud enough to be heard by all the fighters. He walks away with his gun still held high and Aramis’ legs go out from under him. 

From high in the back of Team Two’s structure, where no one even saw him go, Athos fires and hits Durand in the center of his chest, ending that game. 

Athos makes his way back down to where the rest of them are standing. “Problem with my radio,” he says, looking at Team Two. “Give me ten to get it fixed.” They nod and Athos takes his radio from his ear, switching it off and turning his back to Aramis and Porthos. 

They’re far enough away to speak without being overheard, but not so far that Aramis can clutch Porthos close like he wants to, close enough to feel his warm skin. Aramis beckons Porthos to a spot behind one of the barriers.

“I didn’t mean—“ Aramis starts. 

“We’re safe,” Porthos says. “It’s just cowboy fun shit.” There’s something not spoken. Every day they either put themselves in danger or they train for it. Every day there is a chance that one of them isn’t coming home; it’s the nature of their job. Somehow, this is different. This is the first time Aramis has seen Porthos with the sights and sounds of war around him. It hardly matters that the combat is all in fun.

Aramis is a sniper. His brain only has one meaning for the red of a targeting laser on someone’s shirt and he’s still nauseated after seeing it on Porthos. He’s not alone: that scream from Porthos when Aramis took that ball in his shoulder was not the sound of a man watching a game. 

“Just cowboy fun shit,” Aramis says. He takes his mask off, feeling the air cool on his face. 

“Maybe more like cool Die Hard fun shit,” Porthos says, taking off his own mask. “Maybe both.” He checks to make sure they can’t be seen from where they’re standing, and kisses Aramis, quick and hard. “Love you,” he says and his hand is over the bright yellow splotch on Aramis’ shoulder. 

“Love you,” Aramis answers, running his palm over the center of Porthos’ chest. "Come on, let’s show them how to do cowboy Die Hard fun shit." 

Athos comes over to them. “I think I figured out what was wrong,” he says holding up his radio. “Should be fixed now." 

Aramis never exactly _forgets_ how smart Athos is, but sometimes he’s reminded particularly clearly. “Yes,” he says, touching his radio. “Things are working fine on our end now as well." 

Perez gestures at the course manager and the game-on siren blares. The three of them take up positions along a series of crenellations like a castle battlement while Team Two hunkers down behind the low wall surrounding a paint-splattered building.

“Hey,” Aramis says into his radio. “Watch this.” Raising weapon over the top of the wall, he yells, “Now I have a machine gun! Ho ho ho, motherfuckers!” From across the field they can hear Huet laughing. Aramis grins at Porthos and opens fire, picking off feet or elbows as he sees them poke out, watching Durand scramble back from his attempted run for the flank. 

Once he gets confirmation that he’s got covering fire, Porthos goes diving into the narrow lane between the two teams. Perez comes running at him, screaming like a banshee and firing wildly. It looks indiscriminate of course, like he’s not aiming at all, but Aramis knows better. Perez never once hits Porthos. 

Holiding his gun at his hip, Perez stares Porthos down. “You think you’ve got a chance against us, cowboy?” 

Porthos laughs, cackling with his tongue hanging out and his eyes wild. “Motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna fucking cook you, and I’m gonna fucking eat you!” 

He brings his gun up to his shoulder, but before he can fire on Perez, Durand shoots him twice in his left hip. Porthos is braced for firing, so the impact doesn’t move him, but he goes down anyway, clutching at his pretend wounds and groaning theatrically.

Aramis looks at Athos and catches the full force of Athos’ derisive stare. “Those aren’t even from the same scene,” Athos says. 

Before Aramis can even open his mouth to speak, Athos points a finger at him. “No." 

Aramis grins again as he jumps over the wall, bringing his gun up and firing as he lands. 

If there’s a wry, “Geronimo, motherfucker,” from Athos, it certainly isn’t said into the radio. 

Everything after is a haze of overly dramatic death throes and random lines from every movie that occurs to them. They switch from Die Hard to Dirty Harry in the middle of the third round and move on from there. When all is said and done, they are all covered in paint from head to toe and no has gone for the ‘yippie-ki-yay’ line because they all agree it’s just too easy. 

 

In the pub, Aramis buys the first round. Perez buys the second and Porthos buys the third. By the fifth round no one is really keeping track anymore and Huet and Aramis are singing Legion songs with truly impressive gusto. Everyone is still high on adrenaline and taking it out on each other. 

They’re starting their third song, loud and filthy, when Porthos groans. “I’d just managed to get that one out of my head. He keeps humming it when we’re on watch somewhere.” Aramis continues singing, shameless as Porthos rolls his eyes. “I need to piss,” Porthos says, with characteristic five-beer candor. 

Aramis wraps up the verse and says, “Fuck, me too,” before following Porthos into the bathroom. He’s not even all the way through the door when Porthos’ hand is fisting in his shirt and jerking him into a stall. 

Their kissing is entirely without finesse or style. It’s lips and teeth and the drag of Porthos’ tongue over the roof of Aramis’ mouth. Aramis is clutching at his shoulders, digging his fingers in and slotting their legs together so he can feel Porthos grind against him. Aramis is against the wall and Porthos is leaning over him, curling into his space and raking his teeth over the skin on Aramis’ neck. 

“Been wanting this since we left the field,” Porthos says, slanting his mouth over Aramis’ and sucking at his lower lip. “You too?" 

Aramis jerks Porthos’ shirt out of his pants and grips his hips, feeling that skin hot under his fingers. “I’m always keyed up after a fight. Have we not talked about this?” They haven’t. When they’ve spoken after battles it’s always been a storm of concern and reassurance long after the adrenaline has faded. This is different, this frenzy without fear. This is new. 

They’re both hard now, despite the beer in their systems and the questionable privacy. Porthos rocks his thigh up against Aramis’ cock at the same time he slips his hands down the back of Aramis’ fatigues and curls them over his ass. Aramis braces his shoulders against the wall of the stall and grinds himself against the hard muscle of Porthos’ leg. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “That’s it. That’s right.” 

Porthos’ cock is against Aramis’ belly, its hardness digging into the muscles there. “Not— we can’t go back out there—" 

“You think I care if Team Two knows I fucked you in the bathroom?” Porthos bites at the muscle over Aramis’ heart and Aramis can see the teeth marks in the fabric of his shirt. 

“I think you care if Athos knows. If Athos gives us shit for months,” Aramis says. Porthos shakes his head. “And if he has to defend us to keep us from being separated?" 

Porthos drops his forehead to Aramis’, trying to steady his breathing. “Fuck! Yeah,” his hips are twitching against Aramis, the little movements beyond his control. “Yeah, I care about that. Fuck." 

Aramis nudges Porthos back a few inches and reaches down to undo the buttons of first Porthos’ fly and then his own. “How about this? Better than coming in our pants, yeah?”

“You’re a fuckin’ genius,” Porthos says, the flat of his tongue licking one broad stripe up his right palm. 

His fingers aren’t long enough to reach around both of them, especially not with his own cock at full thickness, but he gets them far enough that they’re both feeling the pressure, the squeeze of Porthos’ grip. He pauses a few times to slick his hand again but his stroke is all business. 

“I love you,” Aramis says, breathing it into Porthos’ mouth as they kiss. 

“You just love me in camo,” Porthos says. 

Aramis has his forehead against Porthos’, looking straight into his eyes. “I remember the first time I saw you like this. In that train station in Paris when you came home from FGI. I could barely breathe, seeing you like that.” He surges forward, kissing Porthos again even as his weeping cock is making Porthos’ grip deliciously slick. “I had to have dinner with my parents while you were walking around in those pants." 

“You liked that, did you?” Porthos has his hand in Aramis’ hair and he grips, not too tight, and tugs. Aramis can feel it in his toes. His groan shakes his chest and his head drops back. 

Aramis is breathless, his words clipped as he rocks into Porthos’ fist. “Loved it then, love it now. You know that." 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sucking at his collarbone, “but I still like when you say it.” They’re both close now, Aramis’ hands gripping Porthos’ waist and Porthos stroking them, steady and firm. “I like making you do this, too,” Porthos says, and twists his wrist. 

It’s got to be awkward, it’s got to be uncomfortable the way he’s got to angle his elbow out to twist up and over like that, but he doesn’t have to do it for long. Aramis lets loose a strangled cry and Porthos kisses him, swallowing the sound. It’s Aramis’ come, hot against his skin, which sends Porthos over the edge. 

Athos doesn’t look at them as they make their way back to the table and sit down. They can see Athos not looking at them very deliberately. 

 

The game ended at two, but it’s nearly half-past eight by the time they come through the door, Athos in tow. “I’ll cook,” Porthos says. Athos and Aramis would be fools to turn that down. He makes bacon and egg sandwiches and they’re perfection, possibly the best food Aramis has ever had, and he says so. “I think you’re probably biased, babe,” Porthos says and Athos rolls his eyes. 

Aramis is exhausted. He’s sobering up and not running on adrenaline anymore and he’s about to crash. 

“I know that face,” Porthos says. “C’mon.” He turns to Athos. “You good for blankets and stuff?" 

“In the closet,” Athos says, waving absently from where he’s slouched on the sofa. “Go on." 

In their bedroom, Porthos tugs Aramis’ shirt off over his head and pushes him onto the bed. “I’ll get your boots,” he says. “You’ll just fall over if you try.” Aramis opens his mouth to argue but in the end he just shrugs. He goes quiet while Porthos is busy with his boots and doesn’t move when his pants are unbuttoned and taken down. When he feels Porthos’ fingers pulling at the waistband of his underwear he smirks. 

“Yeah. Like that." 

Porthos’ low chuckle echoes in Aramis’ heart. “Yeah, maybe later.” Aramis drifts in and out while Porthos takes off his own clothes and climbs in next to him, manhandling them both until they’re under the covers. 

“Should pee,” Aramis mumbles. “Brush my teeth." 

Porthos’ mouth is on his, stopping his words. “Shh. Sleeping now.” Aramis barely has time to think what a lovely idea that is before he’s unconscious. 

 

When he wakes up at midnight he’s probably still a little drunk. That’s the only possible explanation for why he’s not hungover yet. His bladder is screaming at him and his teeth are fuzzy. He slides out from under Porthos’ arm, kissing his shoulder before getting out of bed. Aramis hits the bathroom, audibly groaning with relief as he pisses, and then brushes his teeth before heading into the kitchen. He pours a glass of water for each of them and pulls the bottle of painkillers from the cabinet. Athos doesn’t move a muscle as Aramis puts a glass and two pills on the table by his head. 

Porthos, however, is already awake when Aramis comes back into the bedroom. He’s still facedown into the bedding but he’s peering at Aramis with one eye.

“I’ve brought you a present, Porthos.” 

“’S it your ass?” Porthos mumbles into the pillow. 

“Perhaps, if you take your medicine.” 

Porthos takes the water with a grateful smile and swallows the pills. He gets one arm around Aramis’ thigh and tugs him closer. “Need you over here." 

Aramis puts his water on the nightstand and stretches out on the bed beside Porthos. They both turn until they are facing each other. It takes only the smallest movement for Porthos to be kissing him. Pulling back, Porthos touches his bruise, kisses it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“That I got hit?" 

“That I overreacted. The screaming." 

Aramis catches Porthos’ hand and pulls it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “I looked up, when you went after Durand, and you had a targeting laser on your chest.” Another fierce kiss to his fingers. Aramis’ voice drops to a near-whisper. “I nearly threw up in my mask. I still feel queasy thinking about it." 

Porthos cups the back of Aramis’ neck and pulls him closer, not stopping until Aramis’ nose is buried in his neck. “This is as close as we’ve ever come to being with each other in a proper battle." 

“It’s as close as I ever want to come." 

Dropping a kiss on Aramis’ head, Porthos says, “I’m used to being terrified from a distance.” 

Aramis kisses his neck, drinks in the smell of Porthos’ sleep-warm skin. Leaning back, Aramis kisses Porthos’ mouth again. So many years and it’s still so good every time. “I love you. As hard as it was earlier, I’d still rather be next to you than watching it on the news.” Another kiss; this time he can feel Porthos’ tongue against his lips. “If I’m beside you, I can help you. If I’m watching the news all I can do is clutch my phone and pray for it to ring." 

With one hand on his chest, Porthos pushes Aramis over on to his back. He arches over Aramis, kissing the bruise left by the ball, kissing the spot over Aramis’ heart. “Doesn’t matter if it’s games or for real, we’re never going in alone again. We’re a team. You’ll always have my back, and I’ll have yours." 

Aramis grabs his face, pushing earnest, soft kisses against Porthos’ mouth. “Since I was fifteen, until the day I die. Us against the world. You and me." 

Porthos kisses him back, letting his tongue trace over Aramis’ lips, nipping at the lower one as his hands dip to Aramis’ hips. “You and me and Athos." 

Arching under his touch, pressing his body up into Porthos’ hands, Aramis groans. “Do you really want to be bringing up Athos right now?” He reaches down, cupping the length of Porthos’ cock in his hand and feeling it pulse in his grip. 

“You want me to stop talking about Athos?” Porthos asks. 

“I really do.” Aramis can feel Porthos’ smile against his mouth. 

“You sure? He’s right out there…" 

“Porthos,” Aramis bites at Porthos’ lip. “If you don’t stop talking about Athos I’m going to take my hand off your cock." 

“Now Aramis, don’t be so hasty.” Porthos rocks his hips down into Aramis’ grip. “I’m betting between your charm and your mouth you could work that straight-laced attitude right off him. Could probably get right down to whatever kind of awful pervert is always at the heart of guys wound that tight." 

Aramis doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t take his hand off. It’s not that either of them truly wants Athos in their bed, but the thrill of the fantasy, the hint of the forbidden, races down Aramis’ spine.

Porthos licks at the corner of Aramis’ jaw, sucking a kiss into the skin. “I’m betting once you get him started he doesn’t let you stay in charge long. I’m guessing he’ll finally get to make you pay for all those late timesheets. Probably takes it out of that pretty ass of yours.” Aramis groans, tightening his fingers around Porthos’ cock. “Maybe he uses your mouth for all sorts of things.” Aramis arches up, rolling his hips against Porthos’, digging his cock into the back of his own hand. 

“Oh, you like that,” Porthos says. It’s not a question. After so long, there are few surprises left about what makes them each tick. Aramis’ cock will always weep at the thought of being used like that, of being good for someone without having to question what would make them happy. 

“Should I go get him, Aramis? Should we let him see how needy you get, exactly how eager you are? Let him see you gagging on his cock?” Aramis buries his head in Porthos’ neck again. “No. Not yet. I want my turn first.” Porthos twines his fingers in Aramis’ hair, petting him once, twice, then gripping and pulling Aramis’ head back. “On the floor. Between my feet." 

Porthos scoots to the edge of the bed, naked and hard, and Aramis has to force himself to focus. He has something to do, somewhere to be. Sliding to the floor, Aramis crawls to the spot between Porthos’ feet, kneeling up and putting his hands on Porthos’ knees. He’s leaning forward to take Porthos in his mouth when he feels a hand in his hair again. 

“Eager little slut, aren’t you?” With his other hand, Porthos tips Aramis’ head up so that they’re eye to eye. “You want this?” Aramis nods. "My show. Hands behind your back or around my legs.” 

Aramis curls his hands around the back of Porthos’ calves and smiles at him. Porthos’ cock is between them, a heavy, insistent presence. Aramis’ mouth is empty and it aches. He wants to run his nose over Porthos’ balls and feel their weight against his tongue. 

“Come on, pretty,” Porthos says. His hands are on Aramis’ head again, fingers strong against his scalp. There’s a tug, a sigh, and Aramis’ mouth is full. Perfectly, gloriously full. Porthos’ hips are still and he’s working Aramis’ mouth down onto him, gasping with the feeling. “Fuck! Your mouth. How is your mouth still so good?” A few more thrusts and then Porthos grunts, frustrated. 

“Not like this. I can’t move like this.” He nudges Aramis’ knee with his toe. “Scoot back a bit.” Aramis makes room for Porthos to stand, looking up at him and not being ashamed to let the full force of his love show on his face. 

Porthos cups his cheek. “Me too.” He drags a thumb over Aramis’ lower lip. “Open.” Aramis does as he’s told. There’s a hand on either side of his head, Porthos’ holding him still, then the hot weight of Porthos’ cock on his tongue again. “Fuck. Yeah, that’s better. That’s so good.” There’s a roll of Porthos’ hips and Aramis can feel the blunt head of Porthos' cock pushing at his throat. 

“Just like that,” Porthos says. “Don’t move, just stay—“ He doesn’t finish the sentence, just pushes his hips in again and again. Slow at first then faster, but Aramis can feel Porthos holding back, not wanting to hurt him. He loves Porthos for that, but tonight he’s not here for tender. Wrapping his hands around the back of Porthos’ thighs, Aramis drops his mouth open, letting Porthos hear the obscene pop of his cock sliding in. 

“Not even trying to hold me back, are you? You need this, I know. You need to be used like this, like the perfect hole for me to fuck.” He’s stroking his thumb over Aramis’ temple and Aramis focuses on that touch. Aramis knows he will never be just a hole, not for Porthos. He will never be anything less than his entire self for Porthos and he loves that. There’s another push and Aramis chokes, coughing as Porthos slides out and moaning as he slides back in. 

“Oh, I wanna hear that,” Porthos says and for the next few minutes he’s quiet. Without his voice, the room is filled with the sounds of Porthos’ cock fucking in, breaking Aramis’ moans into desperate bits of sound, and the frustrated choking of Aramis trying to take him deeper. Porthos is getting faster, his hips jerking in again and again, as Aramis tries to swallow him down. He can feel the skin tightening as Porthos’ balls draw up and he moans for what he thinks is coming. 

Instead there’s a fist in his hair and he’s jerked back, mouth still hanging open, lips swollen and slick. “Not yet,” Porthos says. He tips Aramis’ face up again. “Look at you. Do you see how hard you’ve gotten just from how I’m using you? Just for me fucking your face like this?” Aramis hadn’t even noticed. His cock is jerking and throbbing and he knows if he looks down he’ll see it slick and nearly dripping. 

Porthos runs his thumb over Aramis’ lower lip again as Aramis pulls against his grip, trying to lick at his finger, to suck it. “I should go get Athos. I shouldn’t be the only one who sees what a greedy slut you are. So fucking pretty like this with your lips all red. Let’s get that tongue some more." 

He pulls Aramis close, rocking his hips forward and pushing Aramis’ face into the crease of his thigh. Aramis can’t hold back his moan and he can feel it move across Porthos’ skin. He licks at the skin there, dragging his tongue over Porthos’ balls, just as heavy and hot as he’d imagined. “Good,” Porthos says. “Just like that. Now suck.” Aramis opens his mouth as wide as he can, drawing one in and using his tongue to roll it in his mouth. He’s feeling drugged by the smell of Porthos’ skin here, wants nothing more than to suck it all in. 

When Porthos pulls him back again, Aramis drops his mouth open and waits, tries to be patient. It’s perfect again, the taste of Porthos on his tongue and the crush of the head against the back of his mouth. Aramis tilts his chin up and arches his back, trying to make a better angle for Porthos, trying to open himself all the way down. He closes his lips and sucks, humming in pleasure. 

The strike of Porthos’ hand on his cheek is not a slap, but it’s too hard for a tap, just enough to get his attention. “Open,” he says. A second strike and Aramis almost purrs, feeling the touch against his cheek. “I want to hear you trying to open that throat for me, can’t do that if you’ve got your mouth closed." 

Aramis does as he’s told and he feels the pleasure of that in the tips of his fingers. Whatever Porthos wanted to hear, Aramis isn’t holding back. He can’t keep quiet, moaning as Porthos takes his mouth, his cock turning the noise to a series of wet, broken gulping sounds. Porthos takes Aramis’ head and pulls it tight to him, crushing Aramis’ nose against his pubic bone and pushing his cock into Aramis’ throat. 

Despite how he tries, Aramis gags as it goes in. He can’t help himself. Once the reflex fades a bit, he wants to breathe, he wants to swallow, but he can’t do either. There isn’t really a lack of oxygen, not quite yet, but the knowledge that he _can’t_ breathe makes Aramis’ fingers twitch on the back of Porthos’ thighs. “You can do it, I know you can,” Porthos says, one hand in his hair, and Aramis tries to relax, tries to be good for him. 

It’s a few seconds, no more, but when Porthos pulls out again, Aramis misses the fullness. His lips are swollen and his throat is going to be wrecked but in this moment it hardly matters. With shallower strokes, Porthos keeps fucking him, carding the fingers of one hand through Aramis’ hair while the other holds his head still for the thrusts. 

“Look at me,” Porthos says and Aramis tries. He casts his eyes up and tries to focus. They’re watering from the times he’s gagged and Porthos is swimming above him. Blinking, eyelids fluttering, Aramis tries again. When he can see, when Porthos is above him in stark relief against the white of the bedroom wall, Aramis thinks again how beautiful his love is. “I love this,” Porthos says. “I love how tight your throat is when I push in and I love how your tongue feels moving over me, but most of all I love how much you want to give it to me. Happy to sit there on your knees, choking and not breathing, just so I can feel those pretty lips all the way against me.” 

Porthos cups Aramis’ cheek. “I love you. I—“ He pulls Aramis off fast, this time. He has one hand in Aramis’ hair and the other gripping the base of his cock viciously tight. “Fuck! Almost lost it just looking at you.” He rolls his head on his shoulders, waiting for the urgency to pass, then looks back down at Aramis. “Last time. Show me how much you want me to come because of your mouth." 

Aramis lunges against Porthos’ grip, feels his scalp straining as he tries to get closer to Porthos’ cock. The head is deep red, made slick by its own wetness and Aramis’ saliva and he wants it. He wants it enough to drown out the ache in his knees, the burn in his throat, the throb in his cock. “I need to feel you,” he says, hoarse and raspy. “I need to feel you in me, fucking my mouth, how thick you are when you come. _Please_." 

Porthos cups his face, traces his cheekbones and dips both thumbs into his mouth for Aramis to suck. “There’s my perfect, pretty, hungry little whore. Go on, then.” Drool is falling from Aramis’ chin as Porthos fucks his face again. His pace is punishing and every few thrusts his head slips past Aramis’ gag reflex and steals his breath; it’s perfect every time. 

“Gonna come,” Porthos says, his words clipped and his breathing heavy. “Close your mouth, swallow it.” He pulls back until the head of his cock is resting on Aramis’ tongue. Aramis closes his lips, he sucks and licks and milks Porthos’ cock with his mouth. Partly he’s doing this for himself, he loves the sheer tactile pleasure of Porthos’ length throbbing on his tongue and the pride he’s always felt at making Porthos let go like this. More than that, though, he wants to do it for Porthos, to be what Porthos needs just like Porthos is always perfect for him. 

There’s a grunt and the fingers in Aramis’ hair tighten as Porthos spills over his tongue. Hot, heavy pulses then the bitter taste fills his mouth. Aramis swallows with a happy moan. He’s done well and this is a reward for both of them. 

“Fuck,” Porthos says, curling his torso over with his last few spasms, clutching the back of Aramis’ head. “Love you so much. Love you.” 

Aramis curls and uncurls his fingers across the back of Porthos’ thighs, just lightly stroking, letting Porthos know he’s fine like this, will wait as long as it takes. Porthos sags, drops to his knees in front of Aramis and cups his face. Their foreheads are together, their breaths mingling in the space between them. 

“I love you, too,” Aramis says and Porthos growls at the rasp in his voice. 

“Did I hurt you?” His Porthos, his beautiful, perfect Porthos, always so careful. 

“No,” he says, stroking Porthos’ face. “You couldn’t." 

In the wake of the last few minutes, the kiss Porthos gives him is almost shocking. It’s tender and light and Porthos is holding Aramis’ head as if he were precious, treasured. As if Porthos doesn’t already make him feel precious and treasured every day of their lives and he’s trying to show it all with this gentle, soft, grateful kiss. 

“On the bed,” Porthos says. “I’ll be right back.” 

Aramis stretches across the sheets, feels his joints pop and his legs uncramp. He’s still mostly hard, but it’s an afterthought to the pleasure thrumming in him, the feeling of having a deep need perfectly fulfilled. 

From the living room, Aramis can hear Porthos’ voice.

“Thought you were asleep,” he says.

"I can't imagine why you'd think that,” Athos says, loud enough for Aramis to hear. “Or did you two shameless exhibitionists not leave the door open on purpose?"

Aramis is still snickering when Porthos walks back in, a wet washcloth in one hand and a full glass of water in the other. He grins and shrugs, unapologetic.

Porthos kneels on the bed next to him and wipes Aramis face where it’s streaked with tears and drool and snot and traces of come. Clean now, Aramis rolls onto his belly and pillows his head on his folded arms. “Imagine if you had gone and gotten him.” He can’t keep the laugh out of his voice 

There’s a wet smack as the rapidly cooling washcloth is dropped unceremoniously on Aramis’ ass. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have enjoyed an audience,” Porthos says. Aramis can’t hold back his gasp or the way his hips hitch against the bed. 

Porthos plucks the washcloth off, tossing it across the room to land _almost_ in the hamper. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not Athos, it’s anyone.” He pauses, hums. “No, not _quite_ anyone. You’re especially pretty when it’s someone you _want_ to please." 

He drapes himself over Aramis’ back, his weight pressing Aramis into the bed and his soft cock snug against Aramis’ ass. Porthos kisses his shoulders, his back, his neck, pulling the hair at his nape up and away so he can get to the skin there. “Thank you,” Porthos says. Aramis squirms under him just to feel their skin together, but the drag of the sheets against his cock and the heat of Porthos against his back are making him hard again. 

“I heard that little noise, you’re not fooling me.” There’s a smile in Porthos’ voice and Aramis turns his head toward that voice as far as he can, relishing the awkward kiss he gets in response. “Flip over,” Porthos says. 

Aramis is on his back, the air of the bedroom cool against his overheated cock, Porthos braced on one arm above him. He’s caging Aramis in with his arms and looking down with that wicked smile. So many smiles between them and still the flash of dimples in Porthos’ cheeks sends a thrill through Aramis. 

There are fingers on his cock now, the gentle trace of them up and down the vein. Every third pass or so, Porthos curls his fingers and lets the line of his nails drag over Aramis’ erection. He can’t help the roll of his hips up into the pressure, the twist of his body under Porthos’ hold. 

“If,” Porthos says and trails off for a second, watching Aramis’ cock jump under his touch. He smiles. “If there weren’t a couple of hangovers coming our way and not enough sleep in the last few days, I’d love to open you up while I get my second wind and then make you ride my cock until you’re crying to come." 

Aramis squirms again, pressing his body up into Porthos’ touch. “Not tonight. Tonight I’d come before I even got you in." 

Porthos kisses him, his lips, his mouth, his nose. “Oh yeah? Well we can’t have that.” He bends until he’s speaking into Aramis’ ear and Aramis can feel the rumble of Porthos’ voice across his skin. “I’ve got a silicone cock ring in the toy chest that says you can wait as long as tell you to." 

Aramis’ shudder goes through his entire body and bursts from his mouth in a sob of want. Porthos chuckles, low and throaty. He’s trying to sound dangerous but nothing about him has ever been a danger to Aramis, so Aramis just reaches one hand up and pinches him on his side, just below his ribs. 

“I think you like that,” Porthos says. “I think you like the idea of me using that on you.” Aramis rocks up against his hand. “What else do you want me to use on you?” He opens his mouth to answer Porthos, but nothing comes out. 

“Talk to me, Aramis.” Porthos curls his fingers around Aramis cock and squeezes just a little. “I think you’re going through our entire toy chest and trying to decide which one I’d want to use on you. Don’t think so hard, Aramis. Don’t think about which one I want, think about which one _you_ want." 

Porthos is right. Aramis has been thinking about Porthos’ favorites, trying to decide on one that would make Porthos smile, because nothing is better than that. Thinking about what he wants, being forced to make a selfish choice, a choice that would show his wants independent of anyone else, is sending a shiver of unexpected embarrassment through him. 

The toy he wants is clear in his mind and Aramis can feel his cheeks heat at the idea of saying it out loud. 

The hand on Aramis’ cock stops moving. “You’re thinking of something,” Porthos says. “You’re thinking of something and you don’t want to tell me.” He starts trailing his fingers over Aramis’ cock again. “Now I know it’s not that you’re a prude, and I know you’re not shy about me seeing you taking it, loving it. Go on." 

“It’s…” Aramis writhes a little, feeling his body twist under Porthos’ hold. He’s whining, hoping Porthos will let him off the hook. For a second, it seems as though he might. Porthos’ fingers trail down his cock and over his balls, pressing against the sensitive skin around Aramis’ hole. He keeps them there, pressing and stroking lightly, letting up only when his body twists to the side as he grabs the lube from the nightstand. 

There’s a cold dribble against Aramis’ balls and then the feel of those fingers, slick now, and warming the lube with their own heat, sliding over him. He’s pushing against Aramis’ hole, not circling it, not stroking in, just unrelenting pressure as Aramis twitches under him. Clutching at Porthos’ shoulder, Aramis curls up and buries his face in Porthos’ arm as he tries to push his own ass down onto Porthos’ fingers. As soon as Aramis begs, “Porthos,” the pressure stops, the fingers gone like someone flipped a switch. 

“I’m still waiting, Aramis." 

Aramis still has his face shielded by Porthos’ arm, grinding his forehead against Porthos’ skin and hoping Porthos will think the flush on his neck is from the sex and not the little lick of shame curling in Aramis’ belly. 

“I’m not starting again until you tell me the toy you’re trying so hard to keep to yourself.” His hand is in Aramis’ hair again. “Face up, now. Tell me." 

Aramis tilts his head back but keeps his eyes closed. He feels the heat in his belly and lets it fuel his cock’s throbs and pulses. “The new one,” he finally says, hoping Porthos can hear the truth in his voice. “The metal one." 

“Open your eyes,” Porthos says and Aramis meets his gaze. “The one we ordered before we left for Cannes?” Aramis nods. Porthos hums, pleased. “I like that. It’s heavy, Aramis; it’s nearly half a kilo. And it’s got that wicked curve. Good choice, babe.” He kisses Aramis then, so soft and sweet, so much love in it even in the midst of all this filth. 

Still in the middle of their kiss, Porthos slides his fingers back down, pushing in this time, pushing in just a little and letting Aramis breathe into the stretch. When Aramis starts rolling against him again, Porthos begins a steady stroke with a little curl at the end. 

“Oh, I get it now,” Porthos says and Aramis wonders how it is he is always surprised at what an open book he is for Porthos. “That’s it, isn’t it? The weight on it, the size and the curve. That’s why you didn’t want to tell me.” His voice is almost conversational, as though they were discussing dinner plans or who should put the clothes in the wash. “Like somehow, by this point, I haven’t figured out how hungry your hole is.” He punctuates this by slipping another finger in, and Aramis gasps and clutches at his arm. 

“As if I don’t know how much you love to be filled." 

Aramis is seeing stars behind his clenched eyelids, but the flood of sensation in his ass and over his cock, the way he let the embarrassment warm him, has loosened his tongue. “And it’s new. We haven’t used it yet." 

“That’s right,” Porthos kisses him again, softly, a counterpoint to the relentless in-and-out fuck of his fingers. “We haven’t used it yet, even though we’ve had it for more than a month. Which means not only do you want your ass stretched and filled by it, not only do you want that heavy weight pushing against this spot,” he curls his fingers up and strokes them down over Aramis’ prostate, “you’ve been thinking about it for weeks." 

He bites into the skin on the side of Aramis’ neck. “Hungry little hole. Perfect for my needy whore. I love you.” Another bite. A kiss. “I love that you want it, I love how _much_ you want it. I love knowing you dream about feeling that plug shift in you while you’re in line at the café." 

“I do,” Aramis says, and he can feel the words spilling out of him in a flood. “I want you to put it in me at the start of a Sunday and I’ll wear it all day. I’ll go to the café like that, make lunch like that. I’ll feel it pushing down on me and fucking tugging at me while I’m trying to concentrate.” He meets Porthos’ eyes, dropping his legs even wider so Porthos has plenty of room. “I want you to know. I want _your_ cock getting hard at the thought of it, of that heavy, cold plug sliding in and warming up in my ass. I know you. You’ll be thinking about pulling it out of me, watching me stretch wide around it, and sliding yourself in while it’s still open." 

Porthos laughs. “You filthy fucker.” He sucks at Aramis’ lower lip. “I love you." 

“I love you,” Aramis says. He brings his hands up to cup Porthos’ face as best he can. Curling his fingers into Porthos’ hair he sighs with the pleasure of being full, feeling Porthos’ fingers stretch him. “You. Always you. From the first time you kissed me.” He licks into Porthos’ mouth and sobs with how good those fingers feel. He can’t come from just Porthos’ fingers, but he’s dangerously close. “Porthos,” he says and as if he can hear the question in it, Porthos leans back and meets his eyes. 

“I love when you’re falling apart like this,” Porthos says, twisting his fingers. 

Aramis arches up, gasping. ‘I love how you always put me back together,’ he thinks. 

“In a minute,” Porthos says, “I’m gonna suck you off. I’m gonna put my mouth on your cock and let it slide over my tongue until you come for me. I know our audience is probably asleep again by now, but while I’m sucking you, while you’re coming for me, I want you to make sure he hears you. Just in case. In case he’s up and listening I want him to hear how good and hungry and open and fucking perfect you are for me." 

Aramis groans. “I have to sit through a scheduling meeting with him on Monday." 

Porthos’ smirk makes his dimples flash as he cocks one eyebrow. “Well, that’s not my problem, is it?” It is, actually. Porthos has to be in that meeting, too, and both of them will have to look Athos in the eye while Athos tries to decide on just the right dry, surgical way to tell them they’re both assholes who need better soundproofing in their flat.

“You know what I want to hear,” Porthos says and Aramis moans. He does know. He knows that Porthos wants details; to know everything Aramis is feeling as he’s feeling it.

The moment when Porthos’ mouth slides down over his cock is like walking out into the summer air. Aramis feels a blast of heat to his face and his limbs grow heavy. “Shit!” He twines his fingers into Porthos’ curls, not holding or tugging, just putting as much of him as he can in contact with Porthos. 

“Shit, I’m not going to last. You’ve been dragging this out and I’ve been dying to come and now I’m not going to last. Fuck, Porthos. What are you doing with your lips? Have you been watching porn without me and learning new tricks?” Porthos fingers twist. “You know when you do that your knuckles move over my—fuck! Of course you know. Fuck yes, like that. Again. Please, Porthos, again!” 

Aramis’ heels are digging into the bed, giving him the leverage to buck up into Porthos’ mouth and push against his fingers. Porthos stops moving. “No!” Aramis cries. “No no no no, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I’ll stay still. Again?” Porthos doesn’t even fuck his fingers back out this time. He just holds them still, stroking his fingertips over Aramis’ prostate with the same rhythm that his perfect mouth is pulling and sucking at Aramis’ cock.

“This. This is what I imagine that toy doing, you know? That press and slide. But never as good as you. It’s been-- Shit, Porthos, don’t stop. It’s been so long since we did this. I always forget. It’s almost too much, feeling you like that. I feel it inside me, everywhere and I, fuck, I want to cry it’s so good. Porthos, don’t stop. Fuck me, don’t stop.” 

Porthos presses a fraction harder and circles his fingers and Aramis, overwhelmed now and feeling his heart in this throat, can’t help the clutch of his fingers in Porthos’ hair or the strangled, wet gasping sound he makes in his throat. “Coming,” he says. “Coming.” It’s barely a whisper, no matter how loud he promised to be.

He can feel his feet twisting, his toes curling over each other, can hear his teeth grinding with every pulse of his cock. His shoulders are curled off the bed and his belly is tight with the strain of holding him up. Orgasms like this always go on longer and leave him completely drained. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you."

Porthos slides his fingers out before the pulsing stops and Aramis will be grateful later. He’ll thank Porthos for pulling out before he got too sensitive and hissed at the sensation. Without the stretch of those fingers, the only thing Aramis can feel as he’s coming down is the hot, wet suckling of Porthos’ mouth and the not-quite-too-much stroke of his tongue. Arms falling to the side and legs splaying open, Aramis feels heavy all over. He feels the weight of his orgasm in his body and he sinks under it.

Licking him clean must be good enough for Porthos, because when he’s finished he doesn’t go for the washcloth again. He just stretches out beside Aramis and kisses his shoulder, kisses that bruise again. “Close your eyes,” Porthos says and Aramis does as he’s told. He can feel Porthos’ lips on his eyelids, feather-soft. 

Porthos doesn’t say, ‘I love you, too’, not out loud, but the way he drags the blanket from where they’ve kicked it to the floor, covering them and snugging himself up into Aramis’ side, the way he kisses Aramis again and drags their noses together, Aramis hears it anyway.

 

The shower kicks on and Aramis and squints at his phone. It’s a little after nine, not entirely uncivilized for a Sunday and probably time to get up. Porthos is still by his side so it must be Athos in the bathroom. 

He looks at Porthos in the shadows of the bedroom. They’ve got blackout curtains but there’s enough light sneaking in for Aramis to can see the curve of Porthos’ nose, the curls in his hair and the steady rise and fall of his chest. For a second the image is back, the red lights moving across Porthos’ shirt and Aramis physically shakes it off. He kisses that same spot, reminding himself of Porthos as he is now, warm and alive next to him, reminding himself that they’ll always be by each other’s side. 

“Morning?” Porthos mumbles. 

“It is, yeah. Just after nine. I’m going to make coffee, no need for you to get up."

“Love you."

Aramis smiles, it never gets old. He’d answer, but Porthos is snoring already.

The coffee machine isn’t sophisticated, they’re still shopping for the perfect one, but it does the job. Before the shower stops, there’s the smell of fresh coffee starting to fill the flat. It must have reached Porthos, because he comes shuffling out of the bedroom, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips. Aramis thinks that if they were alone, if his throat wasn’t still sore from the night before, he’d suck Porthos off just for how he looks in those pants. 

Porthos pours a mug of coffee for Athos and one for himself. He drinks it standing at the kitchen counter, one hip braced against the cabinets and his fingers scratching at the trail of hair on his belly. He catches Aramis staring at his hand and winks at him. 

“Didn’t get enough?” Porthos asks, that wicked grin on his face again.

Aramis tries to laugh and ends up coughing. Porthos chuckles, filthy and deep, as though he’s remembering exactly why Aramis’ throat hurts. “Point taken."

They’re still standing there, poking at the edges of their hangovers, trying to decide if food would be a good idea, when Athos comes out of the bathroom. He’s fully dressed, hair combed and beard trimmed, and the slight pinch around his eyes is the only sign that he’s anything less than perfect. 

Given the structure of their team and the nature of their work, there are only a handful of times when Aramis won’t be able to personally have Porthos’ back. If this is the man who will stand in for him, who will keep the love of his life safe and whole, that’s more than good enough for Aramis. 

“Morning, Athos,” Porthos says, holding the coffee cup out to Athos. Glaring at them, Athos takes it. He opens the cabinet over the sink, pulls out a travel mug, and still staring them both down, pours the coffee into it.

“Sleep well?” Aramis asks. “Not too much noise from the neighbors?” He's not even trying to keep the amusement from his voice. Athos’ nose pinches for just a second and his eyes narrow. He puts the empty cup in the sink, picks up the travel mug and turns to leave. 

“See you Monday,” Porthos says as Athos, still silent, walks out, swinging the door shut behind him as heavily as he can without actually slamming it.

They’re quiet for a minute, watching the dust dance in the morning sun as it slants across the floorboards. 

“We’re gonna pay for that,” Porthos says, sipping his coffee.

“Worth it.” Aramis leans forward and kisses him. Every day in this life, in this flat, with this love, is a gift.

“The park today?” Porthos asks.

“I think so, yeah,” Aramis says and slips his arm around Porthos’ waist, pulling him close and kissing his shoulder, enjoying the warmth every spot where their bodies are touching. “Not just yet, though."


End file.
